The Bourne Interlude
by enigma939
Summary: Even during a peaceful interlude, decisions have to be made, judgements must be rendered, conspiracies need to be hatched and above all, a fugitve must move...the story of what occured during the six week gap at the start of Ultimatum finally revealed.
1. Chapter 1: Objectives and Targets

**The Bourne Interlude**

**A/N: **This fic is set between during the six weeks between the opening sequence of _The Bourne Ultimatum _and the rest of the film. It is from the perspective of all the major characters in the movie, with the POV shifting with each chapter.

**Chapter 1: Objectives and Targets**

_Sevastopol, Ukraine_

He sat in a cafe on the waterfront, by a window overlooking the Black Sea and the street that fronted it. He was sipping out of his cup of coffee, but he barely half his mind was employed on that particular task. Most of his attention instead was focused on scanning his immediate environment, which included both the interior of the small cafe and the street outside it. His eyes and ears were pricked for anything even remotely out of the ordinary, any sight and sound which implied a threat. If any or all of his senses _did _detect something, then his muscles would tense immediately and his body and mind would both be prepared to respond within minutes, if not _seconds_.

If any ordinary person, sitting right there in the cafe for instance, knew what was going through his mind at that moment, they would think he was either insane, or paranoid, if not both. But then again, Jason Bourne did not belong to the world of ordinary people. He often wished that was the case, but it simply wasn't. He lived in a shadow world of conspiracy, of deceit and of death. A world where any unassuming man on the street could be a conduit paid to find one man so that another man could kill him as instructed by _yet _another. It was a world where everyone was assumed to be the enemy, unless and until it was proven conclusively that they were not; and even _that _was a one hundred percent reassurance since in this world, even friends could not be trusted completely.

It was a dark depressing world, but it was the world he'd been born into. From the moment he'd been fished out of the Mediterranean Sea by the crew of the fishing boat, more dead than alive, he'd known he was different. Not merely in the fact that he did not remember who he was, but because of other things; small things. His senses being constantly on alert, for the slightest hint of danger, his muscles tensed, prepared to both defend himself against and inflict violence simultaneously. And his vague theories about himself were confirmed one night in Zurich when he'd taken down two armed cops with his bare hands. Zurich, Paris and then, more recently, Goa, Naples, Berlin and Moscow. Madness.

Conklin had called him a thirty million dollar weapon. And he was right. He _was_ a weapon. A machine. An engine of violence and destruction. Of death.

A killer.

An _assassin_.

Yes. He was born into this shadow world of death. And now he wanted to know why...

Why did he do it? Why did he spend all those years killing people he had never met, for no reason at all, apart from the fact that he'd been sent to do so. Why did he agree to do it? Contrary to popular belief, killers weren't born. They were made. And Bourne found himself wondering, as he'd often wondered in the last three years, what reason could possibly compel a man to agree to be remade as a killer?

For as far back as he could remember, he had been trying to find out who he was. He had been looking for answers. He'd found some of them. But one answer eluded him persistently.

_Why?_

And then, that night in Moscow, just a few days ago, he'd been in more pain than he could ever remember being in. The bullet wound in his shoulder was stinging like hell, even the soothing balm of antiseptic cream wasn't helping...he was staring into the mirror, at his own reflection, pale as a ghost...and somewhere in the back of his mind, pieces, jumbled, tangled, broken pieces, fell into place...

"_Will you commit to this program?"_ _the cold, commanding seemingly hypotonic voice said._

"_I can't" he replied._

_And then, the blackness descended upon him and he was faced yet again with absolute and complete oblivion._

He had replayed that scene countless times inside his head, in the deeper recesses of his mind, probing more intensively each time, trying to find a missing link, a name, a face...something. But it was all a blank. It was as though he were in a dark room, up against the wall, with only tiny rays of light just about peering through tiny infinitesimal cracks in the wall...but is simply wasn't enough.

The memories of a life filled with violence and killing had slowly returned to him over the years, but somehow, the memories of the _beginning _of that life had eluded him. Until now.

But now he had at least a glimmer of the truth. It wasn't much, but it was a start. There were people out there who knew the truth. And he would find them. He would find them and make them tell him the truth or die trying. The determination welled up in him yet again, along with the cold and seemingly machine-like precision. When Marie had died, his only goal in life had been to find the people responsible and make them pay. When he'd accomplished that goal, he was once more an unmoored boat lost in the open sea. But not anymore. He had a mission now. An objective. A target. Yes, he always needed to have objectives and targets. It was how he worked. How they all worked. Treadstone. The memories came back, flitting through the blinds that covered his past. The monster they'd created was inside him; simmering in discontent over his inaction. He would use that monster to lead him back to its creators. He would find out who started it all, and he would end it. That was a promise he had made to himself. He wouldn't rest until he'd fulfilled it. That was his ultimatum.

Things snapped back into focus suddenly as he withdrew from the inner reaches of his sub consciousness. The bitter taste of the coffee bit into his tongue and he was reminded of the cafe, and of why he was here. He was waiting...waiting for the time when he would go out onto the waterfront and meet a man, a well-paid conduit he'd bribed to supply him with his new forged Ukrainian passport. Once he had the passport, he could get moving. He did not know the where precisely; though he was sure it would come to him, like much else did.

He was back on the move, back on the run. His objective was to find who he was. His target was whoever could give him the answer...


	2. Chapter 2: Acceptance

**The Bourne Interlude**

**Chapter 2: Acceptance**

_Central Intelligence Agency_

_Langley, Virginia_

Pamela Landy sat behind her desk in her spacious suite at CIA Headquarters. Her head was leaning on one of her hands, while her other hand was placed on the desk. She was listening, for what was probably the fifteenth time in a week, the recording of the final confrontation between former Director of Operations Ward Abbott, and the rogue agent known as Jason Bourne.

"_I fell of the grid; I was half way around the world"._

"_There's no place they won't catch up to you. Its how every story ends. It's what you are, Jason...a killer! You always will be...go ahead, go on, do it, DO IT..."_

"_She wouldn't want me to...that's the only reason you're alive"_

All it took was the explosive contents of this one tape to completely turn her views about the clandestine world she lived in upside down. She could have never believed Abbott was capable of doing what he did. Of not only stealing from the Agency he'd served his entire life, but also sanctioning and even _committing_ cold-blooded murder. Sure, over the years she'd heard rumours about his involvement in various 'ethically unsound' operations, rumours which she confirmed to be true when she discovered his involvement with the Treadstone project, but there had been such rumours circulated about nearly every member of the senior staff in _every _intelligence service run by the US Government. She herself had a couple of rumours to her name, despite the fact that she prided herself on being the 'cleanest' of the lot. And even the more dubious actions _they _took were usually in the best interests of their country, or so she believed anyway...but _this_, this was different...Abbott had betrayed his country, he'd betrayed the Agency and the trust it had invested in him...the trust _she _had invested in him...

How often had he told her, during their hunt for Bourne in Berlin, that he was an unbalanced serial killer who needed to be taken out before he did any more harm? How often had he implored her to give that final order to put a bullet in Bourne's head? So often that she'd actually felt the need to put snipers in place when Bourne had demanded a meet with Nicky. Had she done it to protect Nicky or because she too had felt enticed by the possibility of ending this wild goose chase with a bullet? One shot and it would all be over; the death of her best field agent avenged, her long-running case regarding the theft of the CIA seed money finally tied of, a major 'threat' to the Agency permanently put out of commission. Such a clear logical solution! Such symmetry! Abbott would not only kill the investigation but also get rid of the last remnant of the failed experiment of Treadstone. He would have gained added respect within the Agency for being complicit in the elimination of Jason Bourne. Who knows, he might even have succeeded Marshall as the Director when the time was right? And she, Pamela Landy, would have helped him achieve his aims, would have helped him _win_, but for the fact that Bourne was too good to be taken down by the traps she'd laid for him. He had not only survived, but had proven himself to be supreme, discovering the truth behind the deaths of Vladmir Neski and his wife, confronting Abbott, taping his entire confession and sending it to _her_.

How ironic it was that the one man who was instrumental in helping her tie of her case was the same man whose death she might have even ordered, had things 'gone bad'! While the colleague she'd worked with and trusted for years proved to be the real 'rotten egg' in the CIA basket.

What she'd heard when she'd confronted Abbott for the last time had truly sickened her to the core completely. The sheer matter-of-fact tone in which he declared himself a patriot, and dismissed his victim, Danny Zorn, as being mere 'collateral damage' disgusted her completely. She remembered even now the half-dazed expression on his face when he said, "I'm not sorry" before he shot himself. Those were images that she was not likely to forget in a hurry, if ever. The sheer inhumanity she'd seen reflected in that pale face served only to heighten the sense of bitter irony she felt in the situation. Abbott had condemned Bourne as being an inhuman machine of destruction, a belief which he shared with many in the upper echelons of the Agency. But after hearing the tape, hearing the sheer desperation in Bourne's voice, as though he were almost pleading, not to Abbott but to the fate that had condemned him to this violent life, and after hearing Abbott's cold and remorseless replies, she could not but help feel that the roles of human and 'inhuman' were now revealed to be reversed. Abbott was the inhuman killer he'd accused Bourne of being, and Bourne was..._what _exactly?

In the past week she had thought as much about Bourne's innocence as much as she thought about Abbott's guilt. That she had wronged him, and that she owed him was evident. But what wasn't evident was the man himself. Jason Bourne. Once Treadstone's 'Number One' asset, or so Abbott had told her at any rate. What had happened to him? Why had he gone on the run? Was it merely because he had been tired of the killing? Or was it something else. Did he really suffer from amnesia?

After Bourne's initial disappearance in Paris three years ago, Nicky Parsons had testified that Bourne, in all likelihood, suffered from amnesia. Landy had not been entirely sure of that at first, preferring to stick to the prescribed theory of him being psychologically unstable. But now, having reviewed all the material that had been compiled on Jason Bourne since he turned 'rogue' in Zurich, she was forced to conclude that Nicky might have been right. Bourne's actions were consistent with those of a man whose knowledge of his past was severely limited, hence his attempts to both rediscover it, and to escape it.

She had spoken to a psychiatrist only yesterday, a well-known private consultant who she had consulted on behalf of the Agency several times over the years, Dr. Morris Panov. Panov, having been given the bare details about Bourne's case, had confirmed the diagnosis of amnesia. According to Panov, a powerful enough trauma combined with a stressful situation was sufficient to completely erase an individual's memory of his identity and his past. From what she could piece together from the files and old news reports, Bourne had been shot twice in the back and had fallen from a yacht into the Mediterranean Sea where he'd presumably remained unconscious for a prolonged period of time. That event would have been traumatic enough. Panov also stated that as the trauma receded, an amnesiac would slowly recover behavioural patterns and even skills he had acquired in the past, and in time perhaps even portions of memory. This was all again consistent with what she knew about Bourne's actions. He had clearly recovered enough of his memory and skills to be able to function as the skilled operative they'd trained him to be. And she knew now why he had gone to the Hotel Breckner that night; because the hotel room where he had killed the Neski's would have no doubt triggered his memories of the event. This led him to his confrontation with Abbott and eventually his trip to Moscow, where he confessed the truth to the daughter of his first target.

Landy still remembered her interview of Irena Neski. The Russian girl was clearly shaken by her encounter with Bourne and had nearly broken down when she repeated Bourne's exact words to Landy and to Cronin. " When a little gets taken from you...you want to know the truth " Bourne had said. Landy realised at that moment that those words, which Bourne had spoken to Neski's daughter, were in fact symbolic of himself. Bourne was a man from whom a lot had been taken. His memory, his identity, his lover...nearly even his life. And his whole life, as he remembered it, had been driven by his need to seek out the truth. Even if the truth was something he'd much rather prefer not to learn.

She knew he was still out there, somewhere. She knew also that he was probably, at this very moment, seeking even more answers. And she knew that if she were given the chance, she would do her best to help him in his quest. She owed him that much at least. She didn't know how or when, but she swore to herself that if and when the opportunity arose, she would do it.

But for now, she would content herself with the acceptance of the truth, and acceptance of the fact that she'd been wrong. Abbott was a man guilty of spreading lies and corruption, and Bourne was an innocent in search of the truth...as soon as she'd reconciled herself to this truth, she knew she'd won half the battle against the liars and deceivers of the world.


	3. Chapter 3: Redemption

**The Bourne Interlude**

**Chapter 3: Redemption**

_Brussels, Belgium_

Even as he made his way down the stairs of the Brussels-Central railway station, to one of the underground tunnels that housed the Metro rail-lines, Neal Daniels was still having doubts about the course of action upon which he was about to embark. He was venturing into unknown and dangerous territory. Which ordinarily wouldn't have perturbed him unduly; he was after all no stranger to the unknown and the dangerous. But this time, it was different; _this _time, he did not have the support and might of the CIA backing him. On the contrary, what he was about to do would be considered as treason by some very powerful elements within that very organisation. The decision to commit treason was not an easy one to make for any operative who had loyally served the Agency for decades, but Daniels, after much contemplation, had decided that he would much rather commit treason against the Agency than against his conscience.

It had all started nearly a week ago, when news of Ward Abbott's sudden suicide, and the circumstances surrounding it leaked out from the higher echelons of the Agency top brass. Daniels would ordinarily have not known the whole truth, but in view of his not-inconsequential position, and _especially _in view of the program he was a part of, he had access to classified information, by hook or by crook, which barely a dozen or so people apart from him had. And he'd learnt the whole story. And what he'd learnt shocked him. Absolutely and completely shocked him.

The fact that Ward Abbott had stolen twenty million dollars in CIA seed money to finance the beginning of the oil empire of the Russian industrialist Yuri Gretkov was bad enough. Worse still was the fact that Abbott had been involved in murder; had in fact used a Treadstone operative to eliminate a Russian MP who possessed incriminating evidence against him. Daniels was even more shocked to discover that the operative in question was none other than Jason Bourne.

If things had already gone bad, they were about to get worse. For Daniels was soon to discover that the river of violence and death did not end at that. For Abbott and Gretkov had, barely two months ago, arranged for the double murder in Berlin as a further cover-up for their crime and had then sent their assassin to India to kill Jason Bourne. The assassin however killed Bourne's girlfriend, Marie Helena Kreutz instead, setting Bourne down on a path of revenge which culminated in the rogue operative confronting Abbott, taping his confession, and driving him to suicide.

Daniels was deeply shaken by the revelations about Abbott, a man whom he greatly respected and whom he had even considered virtually a mentor. It was Abbott who had brought him into Treadstone, Abbott who had taken a disgruntled and bored semi-retired field man turned desk jockey, and made him part of this blackest of clandestine operations. Abbott had realised the value of Daniel's numerous connections within the international intelligence community, and within the US military forces; the latter which was especially a rare asset in a CIA officer. Daniels had no illusions about what Abbott wanted from him; Treadstone needed recruits, battle-hardened men dedicated to the service of their country, willing to take that extra step to save American lives which their peers would be reluctant to take; and both Abbott, as well as Dr. Albert Hirsch, the chief medical officer in charge of the program, had agreed that the armed forces were the best sources for potential candidates. This was particularly the reason why Daniels had been even more shaken (if it was indeed possible for him to be shaken even _more _by that point) by the involvement of Jason Bourne in these events.

Ever since he had turned rogue in Paris three years ago, Neal Daniels had always, deep down inside, felt responsible for all the damage that had been done to the Agency, particularly since he was responsible for the creation of Jason Bourne. Daniels had been the one to recruit him, to supervise his training and indoctrination. He had witnessed the precise moment when Bourne had completed the transition from the man he was to the man they wanted him to be. He had never personally met Bourne since then, although he did occasionally receive reports of Bourne's activities. At the time, his interest in those reports was purely academic, if not professional. But now, the information he had gleaned from them would be useful to him in another entirely different manner...

For what seemed like the thirtieth time that day, since he'd set out that morning from his apartment in Madrid, Daniels paused for a moment and studied his surroundings, and the mass of people around him, looking for any signs; other figures in the crowd pausing where he did, looking in the same direction in him, or maybe two or more people fanning out in opposite directions to surround him, _anything _that would suggest he had picked up a tail. _Nothing_. Daniels however, wasn't entirely reassured by this. True, he had once been a field man, but that was over fifteen years ago. Besides, all the experience he'd gained back then was _nothing _compared to the kind of experience and training the men who might be following had...for he had been trained merely to observe and to inform and as a possible last resort, to defend..._they _on the other hand were trained to infiltrate and to _kill_!

_Killers_. That's what they were ultimately, when all the technical jargon was flushed down the drain. No better or no worse than Mafia hit-men, or Al-Qaeda bombers when it came down to brass tacks. It was true that they killed in the name of 'saving American lives', something which Daniels had strongly believed in for years. But now, after the recent revelations of Abbott's treason, Daniels had seriously begun to question, _Did the deaths of Vladimir Neski and Marie Helena Kreutz help 'save' American lives? Did any of the murders he'd help orchestrate over the years in any way benefit the man on the street in whose name they had been committed?_

The answer, in almost every case he could think of, was the same.

_No._

Which was why he'd made his decision. He could no longer carry on dealing with devils. He could no longer play games with his conscience and with the lives of countless innocent men and women across the globes. He could no longer remain part of this 'nexus of evil', at least not without _trying _to make a difference, if not anything else.

He finally noticed the entrance to the small cafe on the station platform. He first made two circuits, up and down the platform, for the benefit of any possible tails that might yet be on to him. When he was reasonably satisfied of his security, he made his way slowly and cautiously towards the entrance. As he entered, he mentally re-read the dossier he'd compiled on Simon Ross.

Simon Ross, aged thirty-five, was a well-known reporter for _The Guardian _based in London. In his capacity as the Security Correspondent of the paper, he had garnered considerable fame (and a fair share of notoriety as well) over what many regarded as his excessively sensationalist stories regarding international terrorism, crime and military and intelligence controversies. Daniels however, by virtue of his position in the intelligence sector, happened to know what the public could only guess or speculate about; that there _was _more often than not an element of truth in Ross's stories and that in many cases, governments or intelligence services had been compelled to act upon the 'evidence' he presented in his editorials. Daniels knew that Ross would jump at the idea of doing a series of articles on the less than ethical activities of a clandestine American intelligence program.

He found Ross seated at a small table for two at the back of the cafe, just as he'd been instructed to in the e-mail he'd been sent. Daniels sat down opposite him, but then titled his chair slightly, such that he had a clear view out of the corner of his eye of the entrance. His right hand sneaked to his left shoulder momentarily, where he felt the reassuring presence of the Sig Sauer holstered beneath his jacket. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked at Ross.

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes. Neither of them exchanged greetings nor names, though each knew who and what the other was. What an irony this was, Daniels thought. All those years in the Agency, he'd considered the press to be one of his greatest opponents. After all, spies lived in a world of lies and political intrigue while the press sought to reveal the truth and destroy that dark, secret world of intrigue. And now, a reporter was possibly the last means he had at his disposal for salvaging his soul!

It was Ross who spoke first. "Well, what have you got for me, Mr. Daniels?" the reporter asked in what Daniels assumed was his usual brisk manner.

Daniels nervously glanced around the cafe once more, looking for any suspicious signs. When he didn't find any, he focused his attention back on Ross and replied, "Have you heard of a man called Jason Bourne?"

"Yes, I have, actually", Ross replied. "Just a little over a week ago in fact...Berlin, wasn't it? He was wanted for a double murder by the Berlin police who were working in cooperation with a CIA task force, I seem to remember".

"That's true", Daniels agreed. "But do you know _who _he is? Where he came from? Or more to the point, _what _he was?"

At this point, they were interrupted by a waiter. Daniels hand instinctively reached for his gun, but he stopped himself just in time. The waiter took their orders for refreshments and then left. Daniels relaxed.

Ross seemed to have noticed the older man's sudden movement, for he remarked casually, "You've got a gun, haven't you?"

"Yes", Daniels admitted, albeit reluctantly. "However, it need not be any concern of yours. It's for my protection, and frankly, even for _yours_".

"Mine?!" Ross exclaimed, with both interest and mild concern mixed in his face.

"It's because of who Jason Bourne is and the people he worked for. The people who created him. Now, do you want to know more?" Daniels said.

Ross's interest was clearly piqued now. "All right. Please continue. Who _is_ Jason Bourne?"

Daniels took a deep breath, as though he were a witness about to testify in court, and began, "Jason Bourne is, or rather _was_, a highly-accomplished assassin employed by the US Government".

"The US-?!" Ross exclaimed again, absolutely flabbergasted.

"Yes", Daniels said. "Tell me", he added, "Have you heard about a CIA black ops program codenamed Treadstone?"

"Never", Ross said.

"Well, you're about to hear about it now. The whole story. Classified information most governments would _die _for. And it's all yours, provided you agree to reveal it to the world through that estimable newspaper of yours. So tell me, are you game?" Daniels asked again.

"Absolutely", Ross said eagerly.

And so Daniel began to speak. He spoke about Treadstone and Jason Bourne, about unsanctioned assassinations and a legion of highly-trained killers, of brainwashing and indoctrination and much, much more. He spoke for nearly an hour, while Ross hurriedly took down notes. The mere sight of Ross's pencil incessantly scratching on the paper itself provided Daniels with a reassuring feeling that he had finally taken the first steps down the path to redemption.

Only one minor incident interrupted the proceedings. As Daniels has been talking, he had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a tall dark haired man dressed in a blue suit enter the cafe. Instantly Daniels had tensed, and his hands started trembling nervously. However, when he seemed to have assured himself a few minutes later that the man wasn't showing even the slightest interest in either of them, he relaxed again, slightly. Ross, who noticed all this with slight curiosity, asked, "You seem to be afraid of something. What is it?"

And Daniels had looked at him and replied in an almost melancholic tone, "You may think I'm being paranoid, but believe me, the people we're up against could arrange for both of us to be shot dead right here and right now, and make it look like a common burglary attempt gone wrong".

And with this pronouncement, he fancied that Ross had become a tad more sombre in his questioning...


End file.
